(This poem appeared in the now defunct journal Every Day Poets on January 27, 2013.)

Cain turned from me, his back hunched
leopardlike, he walked toward our parents’ hut.
As darkness descended, I felt the brush of feathers.
I barely perceived the voice of my brother:
There’s been an accident.

© Timothy Dailey-Valdés, 2013-2016
Image: Amedeo Modigliani, La Tête Rouge, 1915